


Pundit Road Trip

by scrunchy



Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:18:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12649713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrunchy/pseuds/scrunchy
Summary: Rachel was told there'd be llamas.





	Pundit Road Trip

"I thought it'd be warmer."  


"It's February."  


"It was fifty six degrees when I left the city.'  


"That's not warm, Anderson. It's always cooler by the ocean."  


"It's _cold_."  


"It's February." Rachel pulled out the chair between Anderson and Stephen and flopped into it.  


"'s what I told him," Stephen mumbled into his travel mug of coffee.  


"I don't see llamas." She looked around, squinting into the midday sun. "I was told we'd be able to pet some llamas."  


The convention hall was to their left, the vast expanse of the Atlantic, its horizon dotted with container ships, was in front of them, and the boardwalk stretched into the distance on their right. A woman walked a startlingly large Great Dane, but there were no llamas.  


"I was _not_ told that." Anderson slammed his hands on the table. "We should be doing that right _now_."  


"Oh good, you're here." Jon walked out of the restaurant to the patio area. "I ordered us coffee; Anderson, I got you a sodie pop."  


"I missed you too." Anderson cocked his head. "I have questions. Some about llamas."  


"I also have llama questions." Rachel said.  


"I'm all set." Stephen held up his hands.  


"I got a question, and it's: Stephen, why are you dressed like Mr. Robot's grandpa?" Jon sat and unzipped his jacket. "People here see Springsteen at the grocery store; you don't need celebrity camo."  


Stephen wore a baseball cap under the raised hood of a sweatshirt, under a green all-weather jacket zipped to the corduroy-lined collar.  


"It's cold. We can't all be lifelong outdoorsmen like you've been for a year and a half."  


"Well, you look L.L. Bean's in-house hacker."  


"Back to llamas..." Rachel tented her fingers.  


"As much as I love you all," Stephen rested a hand on hers, gently collapsing their shape, "and I miss you dearly, being here means there's sleep I'm not sleeping. Jon, Godfather, why have you called us here?"  


A waiter came out with their drinks.  


"You sure you don't want to sit inside?" he asked.  


"We're fine," said everyone except Anderson, who said: "I have frostbite."  


"Thanks, Mike." Jon grabbed some extra napkins off his tray and laid a twenty in their place. "Keep the change. I'll come in if we need anything else."  


"Stephen was kidding, I think," Rachel's eyebrows shot up, "but you really have hit peak Corleone."  


"What are we doing? Is it enough? Is there more I can do?" Jon gestured close to his torso, never looking up from the table.  


Anderson furrowed his brow. "You mean in the current climate of-"  


"Everything constantly catching fire and being terrible, even the stuff that's already on fire?"  


Jon tapped his nose and pointed at Rachel.  


"It's hard. It's like a war of attrition on ... such a terrifying scale." Stephen said. "And it's non-stop except sometimes I _have_ to stop to talk to some dude who's fourth on the call sheet for a mid-season replacement drama."  


"You should ask _him_ about voter suppression." Rachel pointed at him.  


"Honestly, part of me always wants them to bring up politics, and part of me is so, _so_ relieved when they don't. Maybe I should feel bad about that;" Stephen shrugged, "my Feeling Bad plate already runneth over."  


"Look, I don't have a ... plan for revolution." Jon said, his hands folded together on the table. "And maybe this is just old man Stewart, standing ankle deep in barnyard shit, writing a monologue in his head that wouldn't actually make a difference even if I _did_ still have a place to puke it up, but ... I don't know. I can be doing more. You're all doing good work."  


"If it helps, it absolutely still doesn't feel like enough." Rachel smiled. "Every day we pack a script with stories that in any other situation would be The Only Story for months, and we're tasked with saying PAY ATTENTION TO _THIS_ ONE but also KEEP PAYING ATTENTION TO ALL THE OTHER ONES. It's taxing."  


"I don't know, I'm really happy being Fake News." Anderson reached across the table and put a hand on one of Stephen's and Jon's hands. "I finally feel close to you two."  


"That's sweet." Jon patted his hand. "You think we can swap you out for Jake Tapper? Or is Tapper too hot right now? Gah, we used to have that kind of juice..."  


"We do what we're seeing everyone tell everyone _else_ to do." Stephen leaned back. "Stand up when you can. Step back when you gotta'. Take care of one another."  


"For starters, we should do this," Rachel rapped the table sharply with her knuckles, "more often."  


"Seeing you all is restorative. I feel ever so slightly re-hinged." Stephen said.  


Anderson's eyes lit up.  


"I actually wanted to float an idea for a new guest to you, while we're together."  


"If it's John Oliver, I'm working on it." Jon said.  


"How is he?" Stephen smiled. "I just had him on the show, but let's pretend I'm _genuinely asking_."  


"A little frazzled, with his show back. We Facetimed, had a nice chat. I got to see the kid. Of the three of us, only two cried."  


"I was thinking about Seth Meyers."  


"Oh! Different white guy." Jon nodded at Stephen.  


"True! But yes!" Rachel threw her hands up. "Seth's good."  


"Doesn't he also have a small new child?" Stephen made a hand gesture that suggested a very small child indeed.  


"He's bigger than a tennis ball, but yeah. Newish." Anderson crossed his arms. "I'm not suggesting he schlep down the shore every time we need to hug it out and/or scream into a pile of freshly carded sheep's wool-"  


"It's not that kind of farm..." Jon looked around.  


"- but if we need to assemble the troops in the city, he's definitely someone to call."  


"I'll talk to him. I'm tending bar for a 'Seth Goes Day Drinking' segment this week!" Rachel turned to face Anderson.  


Anderson put a hand on her arm.  


"I'm _drinking_ on a 'Seth Goes Day Drinking' segment this week!"  


They clapped.  


"Ok, it's done." Rachel turned back to the table. "We're getting Seth. Done deal."  


"And then we were ... five. Six? Has anyone actually heard from Keith?" Jon asked.  


"He is, I assume, still sulking." Rachel  


"No. _Keith?_ " Anderson put a hand to his chest.  


"Not that I'm expecting a satisfying answer," Jon cringed, "but why?"  


"He is mad that, upon my hearing his brilliant idea of taking all my - quote - piles of MSNBC money - unquote - and buying a radio station where we would then re-launch an Air America-type network in this leftie time of need, I did not shout 'Eureka!' and immediately set the plan into motion."  


"I've actually had that daydream." Stephen's grin tilted at the same angle as his raised eyebrow.  


"Yeah, well, I'm not in the business of bankrolling the daydreams of white dudes who, if it was such a good idea, could do it their damn selves."  


"The fairest point." Anderson said.  


"So about the llamas." Jon pushed his chair back. "They're actually alpacas, and I _now_ know those are two different things."  


"I don't care what they are. I just want to hug them." Rachel jumped to her feet.  


"The black pickup is mine." Jon pointed to the parking lot.  


"That one's mine." Rachel whispered.  


"The other black pickup is mine. I'll drive slow so everyone can follow - if you get lost, pull over and text."  


"You know, they say petting animals can lower your blood pressure." Stephen twirled his car keys around a finger.  


"There's not a farm big enough, friend." Jon zipped up his jacket. "Let's go."


End file.
